caesarandthecity

[caesarandthecity]

"The Devil leaves footprints of fire Angels leave footsteps of sunlight Man leaves footsteps with shadows Death leaves no footprints…"

[caesarandthecity]

"Some people just want to watch the world burn, I prefer to do the burning myself."

[caesarandthecity]

"A quote I made since everyone else is doing it and I like words: 'Don't mistake my kindness for ignorance, nor my silence for giving in. There is power in self control.'"

[caesarandthecity]

"Evil isn't born dearie, it's made!"

[caesarandthecity]

I didn’t become the villain by choice, but because the world pushed me into the darkness it created, and I refused to stay silent.

[caesarandthecity]

"You either die as a hero, or you live long enough to see yourself turning into a villain."

[caesarandthecity]

You called me heartless when you couldn’t see the scars, but it was your cruelty that froze my soul.

[caesarandthecity]

A villain doesn’t just break the rules—they create new boundaries, ones that protect the broken parts they’ve rebuilt.

[caesarandthecity]

"Why should I apologize for being a monster? The world didn’t apologize for making me this way."

[caesarandthecity]

The world shattered me, molded me into what they called a villain, and now it begs for my forgiveness.

[caesarandthecity]

They mistook my silence for surrender, but in the depths of that silence, I was reclaiming my power.

[caesarandthecity]

Unbreakable Essence

For a long time, I would look in the mirror and not recognize the person staring back at me. I was a stranger to myself, living on the sidelines of my own life, unable to connect with anything beyond the pain. The abuse I suffered, the betrayals I endured, and the constant invalidation of my experiences had cast me into a sea of darkness. I didn't know who I was beyond the hurt. But slowly, something began to change.

The path inward began when I found myself with no way out. It wasn’t the abuse that pushed me to seek help; ironically, it was the emotional abandonment of a relationship I had thought was my last safe harbor. When my ex-husband betrayed me, repeatedly, something inside me shattered. The sense of betrayal went beyond physical infidelity—it was as though he had destroyed the last spark of trust I still nurtured, both in others and in myself. The weight of being rejected by someone who claimed to love me made me realize I could no longer run from the pain. I had to face it.

Every lie he told, every act of infidelity, made me question whether I was even worthy of love. I began to convince myself that the problem was me, that I wasn’t deserving of loyalty. I remember sleepless nights, turning those thoughts over and over in my mind, wondering what was so wrong with me to be treated this way.

Therapy was the first step, but it was only the beginning of a much deeper journey. I remember one session in particular when my therapist told me that I needed to look into my own unconscious. At that moment, I didn’t fully grasp what she meant, but something about that phrase stuck with me. I began to realize that there was much more inside me than the visible scars. There were shadows, unresolved traumas, and old wounds I had buried so deep that I had almost forgotten they existed. Those hidden parts of myself needed to be unearthed and healed.

One day, while walking through Beaver Lake Park in Montreal, something inside me broke wide open. Without warning, the tears came. I didn’t care that the park was crowded, that people around me could see. I sat down on the grass and cried. I cried as I had never cried before. It was as if a dam had burst, releasing years of repression, hurt, and silence. Those tears weren’t just out of sadness—they were tears of relief, of finally allowing myself to feel. To feel everything. In that moment, I knew something inside me was changing. The pain was starting to transform.

My therapist told me that this was part of the healing process, and I knew she was right. Every tear I shed was a wound reopening, allowing the healing to begin. But healing is never simple, and certainly not linear. As I opened the doors to my unconscious, I found more than just pain. I found fears I had avoided, traumas I didn’t know how to name, insecurities I had masked with a false sense of control. But I also found strength. I found an immense will to keep going, to reconnect with my essence.

For me, this essence—this "unicity"—is the most intimate part of who I am, something that remains even when everything else crumbles. It's like an inner flame, dimmed by pain for a long time but never extinguished. As I delved deeper into my unconscious, I began to realize that, despite all I had endured, this essence was still there. Rediscovering it meant acknowledging that, even in my darkest moments, there was something within me that had remained intact—my essence.

Each act of betrayal was not just a violation of trust—it was as if he was reinforcing my belief that I wasn’t worthy of love or loyalty. For a long time, I was lost in guilt, thinking I wasn’t enough. But through therapy, I began to see what had been hidden. Abuse doesn’t just start with the abuser—it begins when we stop listening to ourselves, when we fail to set boundaries. For so long, I accepted abuse, not just physically but emotionally. I accepted betrayals, disrespect, and slander, believing that’s all I deserved.

But with every therapy session, every honest conversation with myself, I began to understand my limits. I started to set boundaries where once I had surrendered without resistance. I discovered the importance of protecting myself, respecting myself, and valuing myself. This was one of the hardest parts of my healing—realizing that the reconstruction of myself began with the acknowledgment of my intrinsic worth, that I am enough, regardless of what anyone else has done or said.

Writing about this journey has been one of the most powerful forms of healing I’ve found. Every word I put on the page helps me organize the internal chaos. More than that, writing allows me to validate my own experience—something I never received from the outside world. I no longer need anyone’s validation to know that my pain was real. I recognize it, and that is enough.

My journey inward is ongoing. There are still many parts of me to discover, many traumas to reframe, and many shadows to illuminate. Healing is a never-ending process, but today, I know that I am much more than the wounds I carry. I am the light that emerges from them, and each step I take brings me closer to my true essence. I am a star on this earth, a soul that shines not in spite of the darkness, but because of it. Every fragment of myself that I gather along the way strengthens my unbreakable essence.

[caesarandthecity]

"You thought I was the hero of the story. At one point, I did too. But now I realize I was never destined to be the hero. I was doomed to be the villain."

[caesarandthecity]

Heroes are remembered for saving lives, but villains like me rise from the ashes of what was destroyed inside us.

[caesarandthecity]

I didn't choose to be broken, but when I stopped running from the pieces, I started rebuilding something stronger.

[caesarandthecity]

Invisible Scars

There’s a house I’ll never forget. From the outside, it seemed harmless—white walls, a pool full of leaves and dirt. But, as I soon learned, that house hid something far filthier than its appearance could show. I went there often, sent against my will, as if I had no choice. On the surface, it was Wilson’s house, the father of the boys I was supposed to play with, but for me, that house was a place of fear disguised as routine.

Inside, everything felt decayed, as though the dirt had become part of the furniture, part of the people. The windows were always shut, the air heavy and damp. It was as if the smell from the dirty pool had seeped into everything, marking even the walls. Every step I took in that house made me feel smaller, more invisible. I’d sit on the floor of the bedroom, watching the Super Nintendo playing “Donkey Kong,” but I was never allowed to play. Maybe that was the first sign that, in that house, I had no voice, no power.

The filth that filled that place wasn’t just physical. The green carpet in the boys’ room was so stained with grime that I couldn’t even tell what its original color had been. The constant smell of urine and feces was an invisible presence, surrounding me, suffocating me. I would go there and try to convince myself that if I stayed quiet enough, maybe I could go unnoticed. But Wilson always found me.

He saw me in a way no one should ever see a child. The man who should have been a figure of safety for his children, and even for me, became my worst nightmare. I clearly remember the day he grabbed my arm and dragged me to his room. The room, like everything else, reeked of filth. The bed was always unmade, the sheets stained, reflecting something darker—the degradation of that man, which spread to everything he touched. And there, in that cramped, stifling space, my body became his.

Wilson didn’t just rape me—he destroyed me a little more each time he closed the door. The repetition of the act fused with the environment—the smell of the dirty bed, his heavy hands holding me down, the sound of the door locking. All of it blended into a hellish cycle I couldn’t escape. I screamed, I cried, but my cries were muffled by indifference. It was as if the world had gone deaf. Wilson’s children, in the next room, kept playing video games, indifferent to what was happening.

Things only got worse. The height of the horror came on a day when, during one of these assaults, my body gave out. I defecated. I remember the blood, the pain. What could have been a reason for him to stop, instead became an opportunity for Wilson to show his cruelty. He dragged me to the bathroom, humiliating me in every way possible. He forced me to eat my own feces. In that moment, it was as if he wanted to destroy the last shred of dignity I had left. Then, as if nothing had happened, he told me to shower with him. The water on my skin brought no relief. I was trapped in that hell, and there was no escape.

When I returned to the boys’ room, no one asked what had happened. The feeling of invisibility returned, but I knew something inside me had been broken forever.

I tried to tell someone. My first attempt was with my mother. I needed her to know, needed someone to listen. But when I finally worked up the courage to speak, her reaction crushed me. Instead of support, she laughed. “Are you sure?” she asked, as though it were all some childish fantasy. Her laughter echoed in my mind, turning my pain into a joke. When I told her about the feces, she mocked me, as though something that horrible couldn’t possibly have happened. It was at that moment I realized just how alone I really was. If my own mother didn’t believe me, who would?

Later, I tried again, this time with the help of a childhood friend who had also been abused by Wilson. Together, we thought that maybe, with both our voices, we could be stronger. But when we sat in front of my mother to tell her everything, the reaction was the same—disbelief. She laughed, asking, “Are you sure?” and with each question, I felt a part of me shrink, wither. Our words were seen as lies, and that disbelief felt like a second blow, just as cruel as the first.

Carrying these memories is like carrying invisible scars. They follow me, haunting my dreams, and sometimes, I can still smell that filthy house as if I were still there. Each time I tried to tell, my words seemed to evaporate into thin air, as though no one wanted to hear. I began to believe I was invisible, not just to the kids in that house, but to the whole world.

And yet, over time, I came to understand that scars are just marks of past battles. The trauma doesn’t define me—it shaped parts of me, but it’s not my essence. These scars, though invisible, remind me that I survived. Every day that passes, I choose not to be a prisoner of that place, of that man. What happened there destroyed me for a while, but it also gave me the strength to rebuild who I am today.

Years later, I began to understand that scars are not defeats, but signs of battles won. It took many years and many conversations with people who finally listened to me to realize that, no matter how much Wilson tried, he never managed to erase my essence. The process of healing was long, slow, and full of setbacks, but it was possible.

Though my mother could never hear me, there were others who could. Help came from unexpected places—from friends, even strangers, who gave me the space to finally be heard. And now, looking back, I see that Wilson may have dirtied parts of me, but he never reached what is most precious: my soul. It remained intact, even as everything around me crumbled.

[caesarandthecity]

"You?! YOU did all of this?!" "Yes. Surprised, aren’t you?" "Why?!" "Because of what they did to us. To you! They started this fight. I simply finished it. All it took was time, patience, and the will to see it through to the end." "All the horrors! The destruction, the pain and suffering!" "All of it necessary to get our revenge." "Dear God, little brother; what have you become?!" "Myself."